Living In A Moment To Die For
by Landscaper01
Summary: What takes place between Bruce and Selina between the time he reappears in Gotham and when she takes him to Fox? BatCat one-shot. Rated for a few uses of mild language and innuendo.


I've had the idea in my head for a long time to write a one-shot that focuses on the "missing scene" from TDKR between the time that Bruce comes back to Gotham and when Selina takes him to Fox. Of course, as with any BatCat fic I write, I tended to edit and rewrite the heck out of it! I know it's not a continuation to my last story (that's coming soon enough), so I hope you all enjoy this for the time being. This one is dedicated to ireneselina and slingblade125, whose encouragement keeps me wanting to write even when the process frustrates me!

* * *

**Living In A Moment To Die For **

Selina is sitting in the dark on her couch, listening to the rumble of military-style tanks as they patrol the streets below. For the first time in days, she is alone without being surrounded. Jen is out partying with God knows who, picking through ransacked homes and looting shops that have nothing left. The rest of the building's occupants are likely off doing the same, drifters of chaos in an unofficially declared war zone. It has been days – weeks, even – since Selina was released from the confines of Blackgate Prison, but her freedom doesn't prevent the entire city from feeling like an impenetrable fortress, one that mocks her every attempt to flee.

A broken, decaying island metropolis that even the most skilled cat burglar cannot pick the locks of.

Power has been cut to most of Gotham's more well-kept neighborhoods, but surprisingly, Old Town has remained one of the few clusters of occupied streets where outdoor lighting still cuts through the windowpanes and paints dim squares on the walls opposite of where Selina is perched. Mother Nature has been unrelenting with the freezing rain and sleet being tossed from the gray sky during these late days of winter, and she watches the waver and splatter of icy pellets as they warp the square she happens to be gazing at.

Her fingers worry at the frayed edges of the faded blanket beneath her, and she pushes scattered piles of clothing onto the floor before she swings her legs up onto her makeshift sleeping space, settling her head back on a tattered pillow as she does so. She isn't tired – not physically, anyway – but the conflicting whirlwind of emotions tugging deep inside of her chest are enough to keep her from her self-imposed foot patrol tonight. Bane's ever-growing army seem to be staked out at every turn now, and she can do more to help citizens in peril when she's hiding in plain sight during the daylight hours.

She loses herself there, and all of her thoughts cluster and slow until she's scoffing out loud, rubbing her hands up and down her arms to ward off the chill of the unheated environment. She knows that she is contradictory – the woman who once wanted the storm now silently prays for it to end – and she hates that her small efforts to help are inadequate at best. Selina Kyle has always been a woman of strength and confidence, and it is foreign to her to feel inadequate. It's even more foreign that she feels inclined, almost responsible, to lend a hand to the less fortunate. The youngest, hungriest victims of Bane's regime to whom she's been dropping off stolen sacks of food.

Their quiet, unsure words of thanks whisper now at her ears, as do the grateful words of their parents – men and women who have been pulled from an honest, blue-collar existence, forced out of their homes and onto the streets. She can't deal with their appreciation or their whispered words of indebtedness, no matter how hard she tries to force herself, because when they say words like that, all she hears and all she sees in her mind are _his _words and _his _looks. This man who _thought_ she was more, who _wanted _ her to be more.

Words like his have jaded her, but what does it matter when he isn't here anymore?

The thing is, he hadn't been here for months, and still she found herself thinking of him often. The worst were the thoughts that came at night, behind closed eyelids that could do nothing to blind her to the dark images that clouded the deepest recesses of her mind. Images of him turning to her as a gate crashed between them, a guarded look of disbelief overtaking the trusting way he had looked at her earlier that morning.

That morning he had stood right here, inside of her private living space. Her eyes drift to the spot on the floor where he had lingered hesitantly in the archway, and she pulls the blanket around her even though she knows the cold pricking at her skin now has little to do with the temperature of the room. She had wanted to trust him that day, to give him every reason why he and his 'friend' should have wanted nothing to do with the terrorist who had come to gut Gotham starting from the underground. But self-preservation was the name of her game – a game she would play to save her own skin ahead of anyone else's.

If only she had guessed that morning that Bruce Wayne and the Batman's skin were one and the same.

The signs had all been there. How could she have been so blind?

She resents that over the past few weeks, some citizens here have looked at her as though she is noble and good, or that she possesses any of the qualities that he does. _Did_. There is nothing noble or good about her, and the rationale that she still does things _her_ way is the only peaceful place left for her.

The ice storm hastens and it thrashes the sides of the apartment building, echoing through the scarcely-decorated chambers, reminding her that she is utterly alone. She watches the slivers of solidified liquid in the squares of refracted light, and it seems they are a constant pulse, beating in time with the aching and familiar _thump_ in her chest.

She hears haphazard _thuds_ in the building and reaches down to grip the cool metal of the handgun that's secured snugly against her thigh. She knows it's likely nothing more than doors squeaking back against their hinges and wind rattling already-cracked glass, but the feel of the weapon beneath her fingertips gives her some semblance of control.

She glances around, wondering if she's heard something aside from the storm, but her lips curl in a defiant sneer and she silently pities any of the sewer soldiers or Gotham riffraff who might dare trespass into the only square feet of space that are still _home_ to her. What she had was next to nothing, but whether it was her possessions or her dignity in question, she'd break any intruder before she gave up either.

Fear will _never_ quiver in her chest. That much is for damn sure.

Shadows eventually reach for her and lull her as the lights outside finally succumb to downed power lines. A deep breath heaves from her lips as she drifts off, unaware of the dark eyes that watch from just outside the window.

He is sopping and his hair curls down in wet, dripping tendrils. Dark circles hug his eyes from the fatigue of his long journey, and his clothing is plastered to him as though it weighs an extra twenty pounds. But his gaze is pinned to her and refuses to waver until he sees her visibly relax, and then he exhales a deep breath – unbeknownst to him, in time with hers – as he turns away from the building and plans for their tomorrow.

* * *

The hum of the refrigerator wakes Selina only hours later, signaling an end to both the temporary power outage and the only restful sleep she's had in days. She lifts her head and furrows her brow at the offending noise as she glances toward the small kitchenette. The corner area with its unattractive pantry and folding table houses no food but still begs to be cleaned or at least somewhat straightened. She tries to remember the last time that she's done anything remotely domestic in this living space, knowing the answer is _never_, and between she and Jen she wonders how two twenty-something women came to live together and shove away every natural female instinct to nest.

Selina's stomach growls as if on cue, and she ignores the painful clenching in her gut as she gets to her feet and stumbles toward the tiny makeshift kitchen sink. The storm system seems to have moved away from Gotham, she notices, as the windows to her right are no longer streaked with the remnants of freezing rain. Her haggard reflection stares back at her as she lingers for a moment, and she quickly turns away and reaches for a glass, filling it with water from the tap that she greedily sucks down despite the tangy metallic taste against her tongue.

She has survived on little more than water and fruit for these past several days, the latter of which is delivered to drop points in the city every week or so. The filth of the cargo trucks it was being carried in likely kept it from being a nourishing snack, but it made for a better option than no food at all. Only in one desperate moment has she blindsided a perishables delivery unit with a deliberate sneak attack, knowing the food was likely for officers trapped underground but seeing that the need of children on the streets was far greater.

_And as far as she had been concerned, she'd done more to keep the streets safe in several days than an entire police unit would have been able to accomplish in a month…_

She could always find a way to justify her actions, she thought as the cool liquid burned a path of welcome relief down her throat. She can feel every muscle in her body relaxing and sinking along with it, and her fingers slip against the glass, almost dropping it in the process as water sloshes against the crystal. The small bit that she hasn't consumed slips over the sides, fat drops landing on top of her hand, and she studies them quizzically – as if the sensation of water on her skin is foreign.

She'd be lucky to find any hot water in the rickety pipes that converged in the bathroom's shower stall, but it had been days since she'd attempted to clean herself up, and the smell of sweat from her leather suit clung to her skin in a way that made her wrinkle her nose in disgust. _The city's occupation was putting a crimp in her beauty routine, also. Or was it that she merely stopped giving a shit since she'd been confined to an 8x6' cell? _

Her skin is cold and clammy as she strips off her black leggings and sweatshirt in the bathroom a few minutes later. She unties her hair from the messy knot atop her head as she reaches down to flick on a beat up old space heater she had found when she'd first taken possession of the apartment. The square metal box rumbles to life, the instant warmth blowing against her feet a sharp contrast to the chill the rest of her body was feeling.

She's pleasantly surprised to find that the running stream in the shower is somewhat lukewarm, and she steps under it quickly to take advantage before the temperature plummets again. If nothing else, she needs to get the grime out of her long locks, and she studies the subtle changes in her body as she massages shampoo into her scalp. Where there has always been a strong curve of muscle sweeping over her stomach and in her forearms, the lack of nourishment from the past few weeks has caused her to thin out significantly.

Selina scowls as she thinks about how she has always considered herself to be neither muscular nor perfect, but at least in control of her own figure. A lot of things had fallen out of her control lately, and it is minor things like this that set her off the most. She feels no privacy in her own skin, in her own apartment, in her own neighborhood, and bitter laughter erupts from her lips as they curl with mirth, clamped onto the sarcasm she has found in the mire. She knows now that today will be another day where she'll be out roaming the streets, keeping one step ahead of the thugs who wanted her head on a silver platter and two steps ahead of that idiot cop who had locked her away.

She had seen the lanky, overly-ambitious boy scout several times now and had quickly deduced that he was likely one of only a few members of the GCPD who wasn't stuck somewhere in an underground trapping of concrete or dirt. In fact, just yesterday she had spotted him sneaking out of the side exit of a local youth shelter. From her perch on the fire escape of the building next door, she had observed him in quiet conversation with an older man who had seemed to be the director of the facility. Her gaze had almost softened when she'd watched the younger of the two men put his hand on the older one's shoulder as they conversed, as if he was far more concerned for the citizens of this city than she had perhaps given him credit for.

Recalling his offer to provide her with _protection_, however, had brought her back down to earth and made the small moment feel less significant. It was too bad, she had mused. The young pup looked like he could have used her help, as he didn't even have the common sense to make much of an effort to conceal his identity while he strolled around a city in which his badge now made him the enemy instead of giving him authority.

The spray spitting out of the shower head is now some twenty degrees colder than when she had turned it on, and Selina rinses briefly before she flips her left leg up behind her and uses her foot to push down on the handle that turns the water off. Goosebumps sprout up all over her skin as she reaches for a towel, the threadbare cloth doing little to warm her. She wraps it snugly around her, tucking it securely beneath her arms before she pulls the small space heater up to perch it on the toilet seat so that the warm air is blowing directly against her.

She wonders how many more days or nights she'll have to endure like this, though her current living situation was damn near posh compared to what she had grown up in. _It'll be over soon_, she heard a whisper in the back of her mind say, and she concentrated on that thought – that there was a way off of this island that she hadn't yet figured out, but eventually would. She pulls the towel away and yanks on another well-worn pair of black stretch leggings, turtleneck sweater and one of her favorite pairs of black heeled boots. The sweater might be the only piece of the three that's going to keep her warm out there, but the rest of the outfit was functional in that it concealed one weapon and allowed her another to walk on.

Despite her arsenal, her steps are soundless as she slips out onto the street some twenty minutes later, her hair dried straight and a black trench coat which falls to mid-thigh providing her with only the slightest protection against the chill of the air that slaps her skin but keeps her alert. The sun isn't up yet but as she maneuvers between buildings she notices that it's trying. Flecks of gold begin to dot the Eastern sky as if they're pushing away the slightest swirls of gray that still remain from the overnight monsoon. It will probably be a slightly overcast day, she decides, which suits her just fine since Bane's toy soldiers seemed to think a little snowfall would melt them if they ventured up from the underground.

Passing through Old Town on foot wasn't easy at this point, as piles of debris that littered the streets grew larger by the day. It only got worse as she made her way south toward the Financial District, which resembled more of a battleground than the formerly-vibrant fiscal hub of the city. The once-busy storefronts and offices all had their front windows smashed in, their interiors picked clean and their unusable, less-valued contents strewn across the sidewalks amidst the blowing snow. Families looking for a respite from being stuck inside of deplorable, unheated buildings were clustered around trashcans in the streets that had been turned into makeshift burn barrels. Some used the fires for warmth. Others actually used them to cook over, heating whatever food and water they could get their hands on.

Some eye her cautiously as she passes through, while others are beginning to recognize her as someone who could help them. Indeed, one young Latino mother beckons Selina from the shadows and implores her to help find food of some type to feed her three young children again. This is a family that she had encountered a few days ago, all with dark eyes looking at her pleadingly – the way her younger sister would look to her for help scrounging up food when they were just kids and their heartless bastard of a father would deprive them both of meal after meal.

"I'll do what I can," Selina promises, and the younger woman nods at her. Just as Selina is about to walk away, the woman calls after her.

"Miss."

Her voice is raspy and barely audible, but Selina turns to look at her once again. Her eyes are shiny. As ifs she wants to cry, but hasn't. She is resting her dirty elbows on the side of a pile of scrap wood, her chin resting on her hands as if her head wouldn't have the strength to keep itself up if she were to change positions.

"Thank you," she says to Selina with all of the gratitude that she feels. _Thank you for being here for us even though you don't have to be. For trying to be strong for the weaker people all around you._ She means to say all of these things but doesn't, and Selina doesn't need her to. She squares her jaw and spins on her heels, heading toward a local parking garage where she knows a rations truck is likely to be parked after being permitted to travel into the city.

The oldest child in the group – a boy who looks to be about nine or ten years old – scurries ahead of Selina, a dark backpack bouncing on his shoulders as he runs, and she keeps a vigilant eye on him as she watches him weave in and out of side alleys and amongst the clusters of street dwellers.

"_That little shit…" _she mutters as she watches him dart down the ramp that led into the garage. _He knew exactly where there was food available…which meant that he was probably stuffing that bag and giving it to other kids in the neighborhood._

Forgoing the easier way in, Selina scales the wall into the lowest parking level, continuing to watch the boy as he approached and joined in with the other desperate citizens crowding around the back of the truck. Most are younger, and many are women…with the exception of two rough-looking men who reach above the heads of the others, easily plucking handouts like they were taking candy from babies.

Selina scowls in annoyance as she watches from the shadows. Thugs like those two were likely Bane castoffs – either that, or worthless street punks who got their kicks by taking advantage of the less fortunate. Regardless, she doesn't appreciate their actions or their presence, particularly when she sees the taller, balder of the two reaching to swipe an apple from the hands of the child she had followed. She has to suppress a grin when the boy deftly avoided the man's failed attempt, ducking between his legs and taking off down the row of parked cars.

The men instantly began to chase, neither noticing Selina as they rush by her, and she gives herself a running start before she hurls herself back up onto the ledge of the walkway above, neatly landing and brushing off her pants as she watches the men grab the boy just as he reaches the top of the stairway she had avoided for time management purposes.

"You steal from us, you little bastard?" Baldy growled into the kid's face. His partner in crime holds the boy back against the railing, grabbing at his backpack as Selina creeps up behind them. She waits until Baldy claims his fruit and raises a fist to strike the boy with it, and then she reaches up and grabs his right arm, twisting it and snapping it behind his back before he even has a split second to react.

The _crack_ of his bone shattering echoed through the covered walkway as Selina tightly holds his fist in place, then relents just long enough to bring him down with a swift elbow to the spine. The apple flies up in the air and she seizes it with her right hand, tossing him aside in the process.

"You boys know you can't come into _my_ neighborhood without asking politely," she reminds them just as Baldy's friend comes lunging at her. She spins halfway around and sidesteps his advances, quickly recovering to grasp him by the throat and hold him in a stranglehold before tossing him to the pavement where his buddy lay dazed and confused.

The kid stands rigid against the walkway rail, staring up at Selina with a mixture of shock and awe.  
His look quickly became one of indifference, however, as she holds up his prized piece of fruit and points as if ready to reprimand him.

"Never steal anything from someone you can't outrun, kid," she mutters before she takes a perfect bite of the apple and tosses it back to him. He cups it like a baseball and runs off, leaving Selina to glance warily over at the two idiots she had laid out in a crippled heap.

_That's the last time you'll pick on someone half your size, boys,_ she thinks as she tucks her hands in her pockets and stares out at the city. The wind whips gently around her and carries away the breath she exhales, the sweet bite of the apple she had swallowed lingering on her chilled lips. Her stomach rumbles again in angry discontentment, and she clenches her teeth so hard her jaw starts to hurt.

"Pretty generous…for a thief."

Every fiber of Selina Kyle's being whirls into a ball in the pit of her stomach when she hears the familiar voice behind her. _It couldn't be…_

She freezes only momentarily, but in those two seconds she feels something soothing grip her from the inside out – something hopeful that she hadn't allowed herself to feel in months. Her body wobbles as she slowly turns in the direction his voice had come from, but she can't attribute it to the wind. She sees him in the shadows and wonders if the Earth is tilting.

She counts to three inside of her head and forces everything to stop.

"You came back. I thought they'd killed you," she responds evenly. Her legs are carrying her toward him, close enough to get a better look as he also closes the distance between them.

"Not yet."

She has no idea how her softening gaze betrays her as she drinks in the sight of him. His hands are tucked securely into the pockets of a weathered gray jacket, his legs covered by a pair of jeans that look surprisingly natural on him, and his handsome face bears no reminders – save for a small scar over his eye - of the brutal beating that he'd endured the last time she'd laid eyes on him. _When she'd betrayed him…_

"If you're expecting an apology -"

"It wouldn't suit you," he interrupts her, and a small smile plays on his lips as he deliberately looks her right in the eye. Then he says four words she would have never expected to hear from his mouth.

"I need your help."

Her left eyebrow arches and immediately he sees her walls go back up and her defensive nature kick in.

"And _why_ would I help you?" she asks, indignant.

She doesn't realize that he expected this of her, that in the several miniscule amounts of time he had spent in her presence in the past, he had learned to read her subtle shifts in body language. Her left shoulder sits slightly higher, her jaw clenches forward, and the eyebrow is always a dead giveaway. She wants to be in control of the situation. Well, is that's what she wanted, he would give it to her.

He reaches into his left pocket and pulls out a small USB drive. The device is barely larger than his thumb but manages to contain everything that she'd hoped for her future, and it's the only playing card he can lay on the table.

"For this," he responds calmly as he holds the device out to her. "The Clean Slate."

She does not look at the item that he extends to within her grasp. In fact, her gaze never wavers from his, and he watches her swallow a constricting lump in her throat while her lips fall apart ever so slightly. It is meant to be a sarcastic smile, he's sure, but the depths of her eyes give away the slight remorse she is feeling. Remorse he was sure she'd never vocalize, not even for the chance to have her checkered past erased.

"You would trust me with that-" she hesitates ever so slightly, willing her voice not to falter. "After what I did to you?"

_There it is_, he thinks. _The proverbial guilty elephant in the room._

He eyes her curiously and wages an inner battle with himself to say things that will clear her conscience. To tell her truths about how he had five months to think about _why_ she did what she did, and how maybe perhaps against his better judgment, he completely understood her actions. At the time, she had had no idea about his dual identities. As far as she had been concerned, she was feeding a stranger to a lion's den and not Bruce Wayne. He had seen the haunted look in her eyes as he had fought Bane tooth and nail with everything he'd had in him. Selina Kyle had _not_ been sorry that she'd saved her own skin, but the look on her face and her desperate, disbelieving posture had told him everything he'd needed to know just before everything went black for him. And damned if he didn't think back on it and realize how much he would have hated himself if _she_ had been Bane's victim in his place.

"I'll admit I was a little let down," he responds as he lifts his chin. He's feeling a little more like Bruce Wayne in this moment, holding the bargaining chip in his hand that she so desperately covets. "But I still think there's more to you. In fact, I think that for you, this is more than just a tool. It's an escape route. You want to disappear. Start fresh."

He holds the device out, freely offering it to her, but isn't the least bit surprised when she doesn't instantly take it. Her hands remain in her pockets, and he can actually see the myriad of emotions playing across her face, the questions tugging at her mind. _What's in it for me?_

She looks away from him for the slightest moment, observing the broken city to his right, and lets out a shallow breath.

"I can't even get off this island."

"I can give you a way off," he promises, hating to see that she's doubted herself for even one second. His words are clear, direct, and his look is earnest. "Once you get me to Lucius Fox. I need you to find out where they're holding him, and take me in."

Bruce gestures toward her again with the Clean Slate, and this time, she doesn't hesitate in lifting a hand to take it from him. He notices she is careful not to touch him in the process, but she wants to touch him. Her posture relaxes and she blatantly peruses the length of his body, making no attempt to hide her obvious appraisal of his physical condition.

Wherever the hell he's been for the past several months, he appears no worse for the wear. Even the slight limp that he had the last time that she saw him is gone – or he's disguising it well. A small part of her wants to smack him for making her worry about what fate he suffered at the hands of this city's resident madman. The much larger part of her wants to smack _herself_ for caring at all. What had this man done to her?

"Why do you need Fox?" she asks.

The look on his face answers for her. He needs to try to save Gotham no matter what the cost. He NEEDS to. He doesn't like that he seems to be addicted to his hero complex, that he may be the only thing standing between thousands of innocent citizens and their certain death. In a way, it reminds him of how he feels about her. The way he's felt about her since they first met. For some reason, he likes her. And he hates that he likes her. She knows exactly how he feels.

"To save the city," he finally, calmly replies.

She sniffs, indignant. "Who says it needs saving? Maybe I like it this way."

His Adam's apple ripples down his throat and she follows its path with her eyes. It's his only obviously physical reaction to her words, which are meant to be the proverbial slap in the face she feels he deserves. He doesn't give her the satisfaction of trading verbal jabs with her, however. Instead, he feeds her the only truth that comes to his mind.

"Maybe you do…but tomorrow, that bomb is going off."

For one split second, she has the decency to look as ashamed as she feels, and to feel this way at all is a revelation for Selina. She has admitted to him in the past that her choices are not her own – _Once you've done what you had to, they'll never let you do what you want to _– and she will not put herself in danger of overplaying her own hand.

"You get your powerful friend on the case?" she asks. She furrows her brow and exhales a breath she hadn't realized she's been holding.

"I'm trying," he assures her instantly. "But I need Fox."

To have handed over the Clean Slate without her promise of assistance was his way of showing her respect, and the look he gives her now says he expects the same of her. He wants the same from her, and she has never given him that. Not both as Bruce Wayne and as Batman. She understands, and it kills her.

His declaration hangs in the air between them for a long moment, and she listens to the soft rasp of his breathing, quiet and deep. Her fingers clench and her nails dig into the cold flesh of her hands, until finally she lifts her gaze to his.

"Come with me," she replies, her voice a low growl. She spins on her heel and turns her back to him, walking briskly toward the opposite end of the covered walkway – the way he had originally come from.

A few blocks down, the walkway narrows into a long covered tunnel, which she won't take him through. It's above ground but, at this time of day, is likely to be patrolled by Bane's men. Instead, she'll wedge her feet into the few chipped pieces of cement at the mouth of the tunnel, climbing high enough to swing herself to the top of it, and then follow the tunnel about thirty yards until she can drop herself into the alley on the south side of the parking garage. From there, she'll take him through an employees-only entrance into the lowest level of the hospital, which they'll cut through underground to come out on the other side of the Financial District and head back toward Old Town.

Selina never asks Bruce if he's physically capable of following her, never asks how his back feels or how in the hell he managed to ever walk again, anyway. She listens for his steps behind her, satisfied when she can practically feel him at her heels as he follows her to the top of the tunnel. She doesn't let herself become unnerved by the close proximity of his body as he climbs up behind her, though her spine stiffens considerably and he backs off and gives her two equal paces between them.

He can't help but to admire her quiet strength and flexibility as she slinks silently along, her gaze sweeping all around them at every moment. The notion that she is likely leading the most wanted man in Gotham along the streets in broad daylight jabs at her like pins, but she refuses to be nervous about the potential consequences. She's got her gun on her and trusts that Bruce feels he can more than take care of himself _without_ the aid of a weapon. It reminds her of leading him along the tunnels to Bane, but this time she silently prays for a better outcome.

They are at the hospital entrance and he raises an eyebrow as she pulls what looks like a valid employee key card from her pocket and slides it in the lock, but she merely shrugs at his questioning gaze and holds the door for him, motioning him inside with a nod of her head. It occurs to him as he slips past her that his face has likely been recorded on a hospital security camera by this point, but she seems to know what she's doing and he's talked himself into trusting her. There's no turning back now.

She closes the door almost inaudibly and then steps back in front of him. The space is much darker than the conditions they were dealing with outside, as the hospital is running on a backup generator that allows for emergency lighting only. She grabs his sleeve to pull him much closer to her, placing a finger in front of her lips to signal him that they need to be as quiet as possible. He nods in understanding and she is caught for a moment by the way his hazel eyes light up in the dark. A shadow briefly passes over his face, and for a moment she is looking at the Batman.

Crimson pools into her cheeks and she's grateful that he can't see it, grateful that he can't hear the hammering of her heart or feel the way an almost instinctual desire tugs at her. It isn't sexual by nature and yet it is, as the darkness that disguises him is one she can relate to – one that draws the Cat to the Bat – and she shakes it off and forges ahead, leading him through a maze of halls that she seems to know like the back of her hand.

They are close to the exit on the northern end of the building when he hears someone else in the area before she does, and without warning he pulls her back into the hall they had just turned from, flattening her against the wall as he stands protectively in front of her. Her eyes widen and everything stills, and her face is pressed close enough to his neck for the tip of her nose to actually _feel _the fluttering of the vein there. He smells of something musky that she can't quite put her finger on, but it is uniquely Bruce Wayne and she hates that she can identify him now by this characteristic.

He is far too close for comfort.

They both hear footsteps pass the hall they've ducked out of, and she counts to ten and then, satisfied when the person is far enough away, gently detangles herself from him and pushes away from the wall. He wants to say something but knows it's a bad idea, so he waits for her to clear the corner before they continue on.

Broad daylight stings his eyes when they're finally outside again, and he's surprised when she takes the key card she had used to gain them access to the building, and presses it into his hands.

"If you need to come back this way without me at any point, use it," she says pointedly. Then she adds, as she turn away –

"I didn't steal it, if that's what you're wondering."

He says nothing, still, but the wheels are turning in his head with the idea that _someone _gave her access to this card…someone she likely owed a debt to as a result…and he makes a silent vow to himself that he _will_ get her off of this island, come hell or high water.

Bruce recognizes his surroundings now, and if it hadn't been for his walk around the streets of Old Town last night, he would have been shocked at the deplorable conditions that he sees at the end of the alleys they dart through. He follows her up the fire escape and onto the roof of an abandoned bank building, and the view from here makes it even more obvious that Gotham has never needed his help more. It's not just the families and wreckage piled on the streets, but the certain smell of death that lingers in the air and burns at the back of his throat.

_This time tomorrow, all of this could all be gone…._

He erases the all-too-dark thought from his mind and concentrates instead on Selina. Even in her trench coat and heels, she easily clears several feet as she jumps to another rooftop, and he feels his body protesting as he keeps pace with her. A few strides later, she's balancing herself off of the ledge as she attempts to jimmy open a window at the top floor of her building.

He immediately closes his hands around her waist, keeping her still and allowing her to move all of her leverage into her forearms. The warped wooden window frame finally groans and gives way, and he backs up off of her and watches her lift herself into the compact space. There's no way _he's_ going to fit, and sensing this, she uses her elbow to give the glass one sharp hit from the inside before she wraps her sleeve around her hand and picks the large, broken pieces away.

She sets each piece down quietly, and he's impressed, despite himself. It's like watching a cat burglar in action without her mask, but this time her actions are with the best of intentions. She moves away from the window and signals to him to climb up, and as he does so gingerly, it's the first she realizes that he is battled-scarred, after all. Even if the scars aren't visible to the naked eye.

"Thanks for the assist," she mutters when he's finally inside, and he dusts off his jeans and jacket and follows her across the empty space.

There's no knob on the door that Selina opens into a hallway that reeks of cigarettes and mold. She crosses and open another door – this one with all the hardware – and they are in a stairwell. She tucks her hands in her pockets and bounds down ahead of him, scaling two or three steps at a time, and Bruce counts three floors before she stills and opens up the entrance to her floor.

She strains her ears for any noise and looks both ways. She has no idea if Jen (or anyone else) is here or not, and she unties her coat and reaches inside of her leggings to retrieve her gun. He can't see what she's doing but he hears her dismantle the safety, and he suppresses the immediate urge to seize the weapon from her hands.

_She's gotten you this far, Wayne_, he reminds himself. _You've got to let her do what she needs to do._

He remains hidden in the stairwell when she moves swiftly to her apartment door, retrieving a key from her right pocket while still holding the gun steady in her left hand. She's inside a split second later, and he waits for her all-clear before he steps across the hall and joins her.

It is only when her door is closed behind him and she draws all the shades on the windows that he finally exhales a deep breath and then draws an even deeper one. His chest feels tight and he isn't sure if it's the place or the woman or the circumstances. The last time he had been in this space, he had asked something of her. Had asked her for a favor that had ultimately led him on a one-way trip out of town to what he can only describe now as hell on earth. He can't help but to wonder if she had responded differently to his request that day – if she had flat-out refused to help Bruce Wayne's 'friend' – would any of this had happened?

He knows the answer to that. Somehow, some way, he would have found Bane himself. The only difference would have been, he wouldn't have had to worry about Selina on the other side of that gate, wondering if she was going to get out in time or if Bane's men would kill her, too.

"Your place is mostly intact," he finally says with a bit of surprise as he fully takes in his surroundings. These are the first words he's spoken since the parking garage, and he somehow feels that it's important to not speak to her as though she's also a victim of Bane's current reign over Gotham. She is not a victim, and she knows it. She knows it deeply.

She drops her coat on the couch and flicks on a dusty lamp on the table next to it, laying her gun down carefully before she waves her hand dismissively at him and walks toward a coat rack that occupies the middle of the room. "Yeah well, like I said before, it's not much," she replies as she grabs a garment bag and walks off to her left, disappearing from his view.

Bruce stands rooted to one spot and tries not to let his gaze linger for too long on any one object in her apartment. Once again, it feels far too intimate being in her personal space, and he can't deny that these feelings exist only because he _wants_ to be here, because he _wants_ to know her on some deeper, more personal level that confuses him. His focus right now is on Gotham, is on stopping unrecoverable disaster from happening to the city his father had given his sweat and tears, and ultimately his blood to. He is focused on saving the bricks and mortar and steel of Gotham's skyline, and all of the people who inhabit its buildings. And yet, he is as alert and aware of Selina Kyle as he is of anything else in his world right now.

He turns and stares at the rumpled blankets that he had watched her wrap around herself the night before, at the pillow that lay on the floor atop the piles of clothing she had dropped there. Everything from the fabric of the sofa to the clothes has seen better days, and he can't help but to picture her dressed to the nines on some exotic island, this dingy apartment and everything in it as distant a memory as she wants it to be.

The thought curls his lips into a slight smile, which is still on his face when she parades back into the room dressed in full leather from head to toe. His throat immediately dries when he takes in the sight of her.

"A smile, huh? That's a different look on you," she remarks as she moves past him, a newfound confidence in her step that seems to come with the outfit. The sway of her hips mesmerizes him as she moves toward the sofa and retrieves the USB drive from her coat pocket, and she lifts her right leg high and anchors it against the wall as she unzips a boot and slides the tiny object inside of it.

Bruce has to admit, he'd seen nothing like her in the prison pit he'd been trapped in. It's not just her physical beauty that disarms him, however. She is focused, sure of her actions now, and that both reassures him and scares him. He needs her cooperation today but also knows he has to make good on his promise to get her out of Gotham once she'd gotten him to Fox.

Will he have to save this city without her? He isn't sure he wants to know the answer to that.

"It's just…this place." He pauses and his gaze wanders, focusing on her books, her framed artwork and other trinkets and novelties she had scattered about. She watches his lips form a word he doesn't say. The moment stretches and he blinks, and, re-animated, reaches up behind his neck to smooth out the hair at his nape. "You're a surprising woman, Selina Kyle."

She hesitates at the shiver that runs through her body at the way he says her name, but in this suit her defenses are impenetrable, and she forces whatever feelings he's unearthed in her back to the deepest, darkest recesses of her soul. Bruce Wayne is not like her and Bruce Wayne is nothing but a distraction. She may struggle to wrap her mind around the fact that he is indeed alive, standing in the middle of her living room breathing the same air she is. But the fact that they are nothing alike is the one thing she's sure of – no matter the way his hooded expression watches her and this room as if everything about her is worth watching.

She bends and digs under her dressing table, rummaging there until she stands and holds up a cloth sack.

"Your friends are being held at the abandoned stock exchange building. The only way in is via Bane's thugs, who dump prisoners in the basement level until he feels like dealing with them," Selina explains matter-of-factly. She holds up the sack. "This will disguise you until we get there, but I'm going to have to tell them who you are. Bane isn't interested in any old prisoners. The people he's holding have a reason for being there."

"And what about you?" Bruce asks, the lines of his forehead creasing in concern. "You drop me with them and what happens to you? They lock you up, too?"

She rolls her eyes and shoots him her best look of sarcastic amusement.

"You really don't give me much credit, do you? These idiots can be sweet-talked into almost anything. I'll wait until they take you in, then follow behind them and tell them that I have orders directly from Bane to take you to him myself. I'll accompany you to the holding area and then take the guards out."

He grimaces. "You make it sound so simple."

"Look, I know Bane's men," she explains as she reaches for her gun and then tucks it in the back of her suit. "The only thing you can hope between now and then is that this Fox or whoever you're looking for is even still alive. Bane's kangaroo court has been sending his prisoners to instant death out on the water."

Bruce hadn't considered this at all, and both fear and dread prick at him that he tries to suppress. He suddenly feels uncharacteristically lost, and he stares at her for a long moment, his face unreadable. His only consolation is that Bane needs the people closest to Bruce and Wayne Enterprises alive to use as leverage.

"He's alive," he suddenly answers firmly, making himself believe it in the process. "Now let's not waste any more time. Do what you have to do to get me over there."

The space between them clicks as Selina moves toward him, holding the sack wide open at the mouth. He ducks his head and she pulls it down to his neck, purposely leaving it untied for the time being, to give him oxygen until they reach their destination. Then he feels her gently clasp his hands behind his back, binding his wrists together with handcuffs he didn't know she had possessed and now, obviously, couldn't see where she had retrieved them from.

Her hands are warm around his and he's glad that she can't see the way he closes his eyes to focus on the feel of her. He had been devoid of simple human contact for so long that the feel of skin on skin is foreign to him, but even more so is the way she delicately handles him. It's in stark contrast to the way she wants him to believe she is dark and careless, and in that moment she is fragile to him despite the fact that she is completely in control.

The metal of her gun is pressing into his back, but she keeps one hand on his bound wrists as she urges him toward the door.

"This has to look good once we get out on the street. When I say walk, you walk. When I say stop, you stop. If I say step up or down, you step up or down. You got it?" she asks, and he confirms for her that he does.

His eyes are dark to the world around him, but he feels hopeful for the first time in a long time. He knows that he's living in a moment that he may die for, but here in Selina Kyle's apartment, he lets himself spend those final few seconds before she pushes him out the door believing that they are a team.

He is not alone in this fight.


End file.
